


Stains

by acosmist_t



Series: Draco Malfoy One Shots [14]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood, Character Death, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hair Washing, Murder, Young Death Eaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:54:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28813767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acosmist_t/pseuds/acosmist_t
Summary: There are few things that compare to a human life, and when you take that life away, a stain begins to spread
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Reader
Series: Draco Malfoy One Shots [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2020781
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	Stains

**Author's Note:**

> Word Count: 2.2k
> 
> Warnings: death, murder, blood, kinda angst, fluff
> 
> a/n: this was supposed to be 500 words

There was blood matting your hair, drenching your clothes, staining your skin.

Does blood even stain skin?

You didn’t know. But what you did know is that you needed it out. You need to be clean again—clean after what you had just done. 

Your mask was secured over your face, and even if it weren’t, you would still hear every breath, every inhale and exhale. You could hear every function in your body; your heartbeat, your swallow, your trembling soul.

After the longest debriefing of your life, you stumbled down the corridors of Malfoy Manor, desperate to get to your room and some soap. Or maybe bleach. Whatever would best remove the blood coating your hands and the ghost that was attached.

You blindly found that safety, palm sliding as you tried to turn the doorknob. You screamed, infuriated by such small complications, shoving against the door in hopes of getting in that way.

It was to no avail, and you kept kicking, feeling those last dregs of sanity drain. Because you _needed_ to get in, more than anything else. Those sobs increased with your efforts, and you didn’t imagine the slight splintering by the hinges.

You grew hot underneath the mask and robes, but you couldn’t rip them off, not until you were inside. Those breaths quickened, and then you were scratching at the door, hands still sliding because of the slick scarlet covering everything. You felt your fingernails tears, felt more blood joining your skin. 

More stains. 

Suddenly, the door flew open, and you didn’t spare the person inside a single glance. You made a beeline to the bathroom—the toilet specifically—only removing the mask once you were kneeling in front of it. Your arms made friends with the seat as you threw up.

You needed everything out. You needed every toxin and memory and image of that green light out of your head.

There was a bad tang in your mouth, only worsening the more you sat there, emptying meager scraps that Draco had made you force down this morning. 

Speaking of the devil, he followed you into the bathroom, dropping beside you to hold back your hair, stomach still having more to remove. 

You began to gag, body racking with sobs, and he rubbed soothing circles into your back. “It’s okay,” he says. “Breathe with me,” he says. 

You listened, trying to speak, but no words came out, only hiccups and coughs. “Make it stop,” you finally managed. “I want it to stop.”

He knew you didn’t mean any present affliction. He knew you meant your life as a whole.

Life as a Death Eater.

“Whose blood is this? Is it yours?” His hands started roving over your body, feeling for a wound, more urgent as you closed your eyes, resting your head against the porcelain. “Where’s the source? Help me find it-”

You shot your hands out, grabbing his wrists. “Not mine,” you choked out. “Just a bit of it, some purple curse, but not mine.”

Your stomach seemed to be as depleted as your energy, and the retching finally let up. You fell back, leaning against Draco as he oriented the two of you; you sat between his legs, back against his chest, and he was behind you, hands still assessing for wounds.

Vaguely, you remembered the blood that you were now staining _him_ with.

“ _Accio Essence of Dittany_.” The small bottle flew into his grasp, and he gently lifted your shirt, finding the still-bleeding gash, barely clotting. “You need to take care of these things,” he tutted as he poured some of the liquid, smoke billowing up.

“I’m sorry,” you forced out, shutting your eyes and relishing in his voice against the shell of your ear. “I’m so, so sorry.”

You weren’t just talking to him.

“Is there anything else? Did you get hit with anything else?”

You shook your head, the cotton stuffing it making you waver. “Forehead...need blood replenishment potion.” You rested back on his shoulder, shutting your eyes.

“Merlin, what happened?” He sent out another spell, the potion appearing a moment later. He carefully turned your head, and you opened your mouth as he helped you get it down your throat, wincing from the bitter, iron taste. “It was supposed to be isolated contact.”

“The Lord sent me after-” Your voice broke, and you stared at the harsh lighting, fighting the need to cry. You didn’t try to speak again. Not yet.

Draco sat there, not pressing. He hadn’t been assigned to the mission, and you knew he had been driving himself mad as he waited for you to return. He was always worrying about you, doing his best to take on the worst of tasks, but after his failure with Dumbledore, the Lord had punished him. 

Punished him through you. 

You could feel the guilt. Feel it through his deep sighs, his tightening fingers, his tense silence. It thickened the air so much that you believed you could cut it with a knife.

Eventually, he rose, reaching down to help you do the same, flushing the toilet and pulling down the lid for you to sit on. You did so, and he turned to the large clawfoot tub, filling it with warm water, magic making sure it never grew cold.

When he was done, he helped you stand on shaky legs, undressing you before doing the same, pretending like those weren’t tears falling from your eyes. You clenched your hands into fists to conceal the shaking, but at least the hysteria had waned.

He brought you to sit in the tub, both of you naked, and you resumed your previous position—you between his legs, and his back against the head of the tub. There were a few inches of space between you, and he kept it like that.

The water was already turning red, and panic sliced your throat when you saw it and immediately tried to push away, subconsciously scooting all the way into his chest.

“No- _no_ ,” you cried, trying to get away from all the watery blood. It was all you saw: scarlet and ruby and crimson drowning you. You and Draco.

“It’s okay. Relax. You’re okay.”

“No. The _blood_ -”

He tapped his wand against the rim of the tub, replacing the colored water with clear. Clean. “It’s gone. Just a little bit longer, love, and there will be none left.”

You didn’t have a response, only a whimper. Pathetic. Scared. 

“Close your eyes,” he murmured. 

You listened, letting him take control, not caring what was happening. His hands brushed against your shoulders, then freeing all your hair so it floated around you.

More red. More stains. 

He applied light pressure on your shoulders, and you let him push you under the water. You kept your eyes closed, focusing on darkness and not that emerald curse.

After a short second, he brought you back up, hands running through your tresses, wringing them of ghosts and horror. Draco made a cup appear, so out of place in the bathroom, then filled it with water.

“Eyes closed,” he reminded, tilting your head up and pouring the water, starting at your hairline and letting it move through the strands, his fingers following, massaging on your scalp and down.

You found a grip on the rim, holding on tightly as you tried to ignore the feeling of being so vulnerable. The water would normally be soothing, but it was too much right now.

“Almost done.”

You nodded in response, fighting a new bout of nausea. You thought of the safety of his body so close to you, thought of how Draco would never forgive himself if he hurt you.

He repeated the process with the cup a few more times, and when he was finished, you refused to open your eyes until you heard the tell-tale tap of his wand on the tub. Clean water. Fresh. No stains. 

Your lids lifted slowly, hand finding purchase on his leg beside you. The grip was so vice-like that he pulled you closer to him, wrapping his arms just as strongly around your torso, a whisper of a kiss on your neck.

“Talk to me, love.” He grabbed a warm washcloth and soap, delicately scrubbing your body, and you almost wished he would be rougher. You wanted every inch of that damnation eradicated.

You put your hand on top of his, following his movements for the distraction, letting him guide you. “They had disguised themselves as Potter—Polyjuice Potion, I think. W-we thought he’d be with Mad-Eye.”

Draco moved to your stomach, then dragged the hand up and down your side, calming. “Is that who hit you with the curse? Could you tell?”

There was an unspoken promise in his words—a promise of revenge. He didn’t understand that he could never get his wish.

“It was him. The Lord told me he was my mark, and that I wasn’t allowed to let him go. I tried, Draco, I swear I did.”

Another kiss on your neck. “I know you did. I’ll take as much of the fall as I can—I’ll say I didn’t want to be left behind and distracted you. That’s how he got away.”

You grabbed his hands, making him stop, turning and shaking your head. You opened your mouth to speak, to tell him, _no, that’s not what I meant_. But he silenced you, this kiss on your lips.

“We’ll be okay,” he said, not pulling away. “We will.”

You faced back forward, sighing. He didn’t understand at all. “I chased him for miles. I swear Potter was with him—the Dark Lord told me so. He _told_ me that I was doing right.”

“I know. You made the best choice you could.” He paused for a moment, then asking, “Can I wash your hair? There’s more in it.”

 _More_.

You swallowed, but nodded all the same. “Slow.”

He hummed, reassuring that he would take his time. Fingertips ran the shampoo through your roots, along your scalp, and a weight gradually lifted. You allowed yourself to fall into the touch, to trust it and seek out the comfort it offered. When you sighed deeply, Draco readjusted so you could lay against him as comfortably as possible.

He brought the cup back up, rinsing out the suds after long enough. That’s when you decided to talk.

“I killed a man today.”

Those relaxers paused, only for a blip of a second, before continuing their ministrations, beginning to thread conditioner through your hair, down to the ends.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he replied resolutely. “None of it is your fault.”

You pushed down the round of mania, trying to condense everything into your words, accompanied by a few stray tears. “I knocked him from the broom, and then I fell down after him. I landed on top of his body. Some piece of metal on the ground punctured him; I barely survived, and I was tangled with him-”

Again, your voice broke off—shattered, more like it. His limbs had crossed with yours, his blood drenching you completely.

“H-his skull crushed on impact.” Draco finished rinsing out the conditioner, then encircling your body with his arms, hunching over so he was shielding you entirely; chest to back, spines aligned. “My hair was caught under it—and I kept pulling and it wouldn’t come loose and I think I started screaming but there was no one there, Draco, and I was all alone and-”

“It’s over. It’s all gone,” he hushed your rambling. You had started to fall apart, the memories coming back in a vivid onslaught.

“I _killed_ him,” you whispered around the tears, trembling, and his body only tightened around yours.

“It was you or him. I would have done the same.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You didn’t.”

“I would have. For you, I would have done it without hesitation.”

You bit your lip, waiting for the emotions to ebb enough to speak without hiccups. Then: “It’s a stain. On my soul, Draco. Grime that I can’t clean off. I’ll never get it out.”

He tilted to press a third kiss to your neck. “I will make sure it never spreads. I swear I’ll take every mission after this—you’ll never have to even consider it again.”

“You can’t promise that. Not when this”—you pulled your left forearm out of the water, flashing the Mark—“is permanent. We’re trapped.”

His right arm snaked even further around your stomach, holding you impossibly close. He pulled his left out beside yours, lining up your Marks side-by-side. “I’m sorry. We don’t deserve this. And I’ll get you out, I promise I will.”

You pushed his arms away, which clamped on reflex, then loosened as you showed that you were only spinning. You brought him away from the head of the tub, just so you could sit in his lap, chest to chest, your legs wrapped around his waist.

He recovered his hold on you, and you put your arms around his neck, pressing your lips to the soft skin at the base of his throat. “I don’t want to be stained—I don’t want either of us to be.” You mouthed the words onto him, imprinted through soft murmurs.

“We’ll leave. When the war is over, when the heroes win, we will get out. Wash our hands of this torture and killing and misdeeds. We don’t owe anyone anything.”

You shut your eyes, imagining a life where the two of you were no longer plagued by this life, an occupation you never asked for. It was beautiful, perfect for the way that freedom was constantly within grasp. “We owe them nothing,” you promised. “Nothing at all.”


End file.
